


Flaws

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alt Rock, Declarations Of Love, Fluff and Angst, M/M, OCD, Sweet, flaws
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 18:45:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2632343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock becomes obsessed by by the song "Flaws" by Bastille and hopes John understands. John does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flaws

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "Flaws" by Bastille. Link to lyrics: http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/bastille/flaws.html.  
> This is my first fanfic ever. I really, really want your feedback - positive or negative. TIA

Sherlock stopped at the corner news stand to buy cigarettes. He usually filtered out the ambient background noise – other shoppers’ shuffles, the murmur of conversation, the music blaring over the clerk's radio. Until today, when the song playing over the clerk’s radio catches his attention. He jerks his head up, eyes blazing and demands of the clerk “What’s that song?”

The clerk is used to the tall man’s unpredictable ways. Some days he speaks pleasantly, others he completely ignores the longing glances she gives him. Today she’s disarmed by the intensity of the aqua gaze. “Flaws” she barely squeaks out. 

“Hmm? Flaws? What’s that?” the strange man counters. “T-the n-name of the song,” the disarmed clerk stutters. She’s been trying to get this man’s attention for months with no result. And now, a song over the radio finally brought his attention squarely on her - and all she could is was stammer like a schoolgirl. “Flaws, by Bastille.” 

The man looks thoughtful. “Bastille? Is that a pop group?” “More alt rock, really” she replies.” He looks at her, truly puzzled. “Alt rock? What in heaven’s name does that mean?”  
“You know, alternative rock music. Sliver Sun Pickups, Alt J, Hozier?” Her voice rises with each band names she reels off. “Blink 182?” The handsome man  
blinks three times in rapid succession, looking dazed. “Cage the Elephant?” She finishes weakly.

“What elephant?” the man demands. “And what in the world is a Hozier?” She giggles, “They’re all alternative rock bands. Bastille is an alt rock artist. You can look him up on YouTube or iTunes.” “Oh” the pale man finally understands, handing her cash for the cigarettes. “Thanks for the information.” 

She’s stunned. In all the months she’s waited on him, he’s never once thanked her. Her cheeks glow as he pockets his change and turns to go. “Bye now!” she sings out. He gives her a grin and a wink over his shoulder, then he’s gone. She sighs loudly.

That evening John returns from work to find Sherlock in his chair, lost in thought, not even noticing his partner entered the flat. His iPhone is docked in the stereo, a song blaring at full volume. John recognizes it from the radio. He hums along to the familiar tune. Suddenly Sherlock springs up, demanding “John! You know this song?” “Course I do, Sherlock. It’s a hit right now. Can’t go anywhere without hearing it. Rather catchy, isn’t it?” John says wearily. He recognizes that Sherlock’s in one of his obsessive moods. “What? How can you know about this without telling me?” his partner demands. The song continues to play on loop, loud.

John sighs, “Sherlock, there’s a lot of popular culture I know about that I don’t necessarily bring to your attention. You know, your filter? How you don’t really care what’s on the radio or what celebrity checked in a rehab clinic? Or the royal baby, holidays, movies…” “Well, yes, who has time for that drivel? But this is important! I wish you’d told me,” Sherlock sulks.

John sighs and turns to the kitchen to start dinner. How is he supposed to know what would catch his half-mad flatmate’s attention? He hums along the first five times the song plays, then sings snatches for the next five. By the 25th time, he’s singing it through and has had enough. “Going out, love. Need onions to finish up dinner,” he calls over his shoulder as he shuts the door. 

John meets Mrs. Hudson at the front door. “John, dear, is Sherlock alright? He’s been playing the same bloody awful song all day. Driving me near bonkers, it is. I don’t mind the late night violin and really, popular music isn’t all that bad, but the same song over and over and over all day? It’s just too much. I can barely think!” “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson,” John replies. “He’s in one of his moods. Accused me of keeping information from him because I hadn’t told him about this song. Really, you haven’t been able to go anywhere in London without hearing it for weeks. And today it captures his attention, then it’s my fault he never noticed it before. I’m going out. Need a break from the OCD up there.”

Mrs. Hudson smiles sympathetically and pats his arm. “I know, dear, I know. Sometimes he’s a blessing and others he’s a cross to bear. But always, he’s our dear boy.” John nods, coloring from the gentle reprimand. Mrs. Hudson’s right. He thought he’d lost his dear boy before, lived with the anguish of his “death” for more than two years. His partner’s obsessing about a song was minor – nothing really – compared to that.

Later that evening, after a lovely dinner of beef stroganoff (with fresh onions) and salad followed by John trying to read while listening to “Flaws” for the 150th to 279th times, he decides to go to bed early. He shuts the bedroom door against the song and props pillows against the headboard to read. 

Sherlock comes in later to find John asleep, still propped, the book against his chest. The taller man tenderly removes the book and scoots John down the pillows to be more comfortable. He turns off the bedside lamp before climbing in beside his partner, taking his hand gently.

John stirs when he feels the mattress shift, coming awake to the feel of long, slender fingers grasping his. He opens his eyes to his love staring at him from across his pillow. “Mmm, you ok?” he mumbles sleepily. “Divine,” Sherlock whispers, gazing lovingly at John. “Divine? What brought that on?” John asks, more fully awake.

“You,” Sherlock breathes. “You, putting up with all my flaws. The flaws I wear on my sleeve every day, not even bothering to try to hide. You, filling the hole in my soul that I didn’t know was there until I had to fake suicide to keep you safe.”A tear escapes Sherlock’s eye, rolls quickly down his temple and into his dark curls. He doesn’t try to hide it.

John reaches his free hand up to gently wipe the tear track. “Sherlock, I am not without my own flaws, as you well know,” he says gently. “I’m the one who buries them deep beneath the ground. That’s worse in some ways.” Sherlock gently shakes his head. “No, John, I haven’t dug up any yet. You are kind, and patient, and good. You bring out the best in everyone around you. I know you get impatient with me but you so rarely show it. You are a truly good man. And I can’t figure out why you’d put up with such a flawed man as me, let alone love me.”

John leans forward to press a tender kiss to his partner’s lips. He lays back on his pillow, looks deep into the blue-green eyes he loves so much. He takes a breath, then sings, low and sweet:

“All of your flaws and all of my flaws,  
When they have been exhumed  
We'll see that we need them to be who we are  
Without them we'd be doomed”

And that is explanation enough.


End file.
